


you're as lovely as your name

by senseof_Hygge



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Cinderella AU, M/M, Not Beta Read, the opposite of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senseof_Hygge/pseuds/senseof_Hygge
Summary: The Cinderella AU where Youngjo is a blind prince, Hwanwoong is the fair maiden and he's not found by his glass slipper but by his singing.
Relationships: Kim Youngjo | Ravn/Yeo Hwanwoong
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	you're as lovely as your name

**Author's Note:**

> for @oneusky on twt, to know her is to know sunshine and happiness :)

Hwanwoong is old enough to understand death parlays a certain permanence but young enough that the details of his mother's face evade him as the years press on. 

She had been ill for as long as he'd been alive, always sickly and frail, but never short on the kind, warm love he so desperately sought out on particularly gloomy days. His father was gone for long swaths of time everyday, the merchant that he was, hands steeped in honest but hard work. 

They made a well enough living to afford a modest manor near the outskirts of the kingdom, just shy of civilization where the air seemed cleaner and better for his mother. The money never quite seemed to be enough; they bled funds just as quickly as they made profits, every last coin poured into his mother's medicines that only seemed to weaken her more.

No matter though, Hwanwoong's mother would remind him, they had each other and that was enough. 

"Be good, Hwanwoong, always be good." She reminded him, hand pale and shaking, tenderly rubbing the top of his head. He listened to her words, as any good boy would.

"I'm scared." Hwanwoong confessed, words muffled in her bosom as he nuzzled softly at her nightgown. Summers brought with them a muggy humidity and the fabric against his face was a welcome balm. This topic hung around them since time immemorial; it was no secret that his mother was ill and lived on borrowed time.

Hwanwoong could not imagine life without her. Her hand never stopped stroking his head,

"It is okay to be scared but you're my little hero aren't you? Even if you're scared, you will still be able to do it, because you are my brave little one."

It had to be enough. She kissed him on the crown of his head, warmth blooming from where her lips pressed against the delicate hair there.

Until it wasn't. The thing about death is how unfair it can be, stalking down the halls with light sure-footed steps and taking away everything he has ever known. It garners no fanfare, simply stealing away with his mother in the middle of the night and when he awoke the next morning to find no breath in her, found a numbness he did not know how to overcome.

His forehead burned where she kissed him.

His father carried his heartbreak on his sleeve, eyes wearied with too many sleepless nights, spending them steeped in mourning a love lost, work wearing him down like tides upon a stone.

His decision to remarry took Hwanwoong by surprise. There seemed to be no love between his father and the new lady of the house, a widowed duchess in title only with two children of her own, conversation stilted and formal when they spoke to each other.

The thought of having a new family terrified him though he never said it aloud. More than having to share his house, his rooms, his toys, he had to share the affection of his father. 

The man may have been polite with the duchess' family but that was not to say he was unkind to them. Every trip back from his travels brought with him gifts aplenty: tulle skirts and patchwork dolls, wooden flutes and glass blown bouquets. This, he evenly divided between the three little ones of the house and though Hwanwoong felt bitter jealousy at having to share, he beared with it.

One loss is bad, the second loss becomes unbearable.

When news came back to their manor of his father's carriage accident, Hwanwoong felt as if he had never known anguish until that very moment. As if weeping for him, the sky opened up that night with thunderous sobs of rain, wind whipping at murderous speeds and splattering against his bedroom window. He looked out with overcast eyes.

His father never truly taught him how to cope with his mother's passing. Losing his father had taught him even less. Of course, his stepmother waited on no one. The world turned another day, and upon the next sunrise, the manor had been gutted.

With his father gone and their only source of income frozen, the servants were sent packing, from the coachmen to the cooks, the once vibrant home carefully tended to lose its luster, left only as the skeleton of what it once was.

Still, the clock did not stop and wait for the grieving to feel grief. There was work to be done and only one person in the house of four willing to do it. Hwanwoong hiked up his skirts and set to making breakfast, swallowing his bitter feelings and plastering on as best a smile as he could; he set foot in the kitchens for the first time.

Years pass by in the blink of an eye. Hwanwoong is essentially a servant of his own house, tired to the bone every night, a sort of tiredness that never really left him in the mornings when he dragged himself from the attic and prepared breakfast, clung to him in the afternoon when he swept the floors and tended to the fireplace. He’d long forgotten how it felt to be happy.

That is, until royal notice from the palace came through and announced a grand ball, fit for the Prince’s debutante, and every eligible maiden and man were to attend. Between the jovial chittering of his step siblings, Hwanwoong felt something spark and ignite within, excitement coursing through his veins as he grips the broomstick in his hands and bounces on the balls of his feet,

“Why, that means I get to go too!” he smiles in spite of himself, giggling dreamily as he thinks about seeing the prince up close. There are portraits of the royal family around the kingdom and it is no secret that the prince is as handsome as they come. Strong brows and a fine, lovely mouth, his eyes the colour of porcelain, Kim Youngjo is the most beautiful man Hwanwoong has ever laid eyes on.

“ _You_ get to go?” his step mother laughs condescendingly, eyes glinting with something mean, “What do you mean by that?”

Hwanwoong doesn’t let her dampen his mood,

“Well it says there, right?” he gestures to the parchment with a jut of his chin, “Every eligible maiden and man should attend.”

“So it does…” she ponders upon this a moment, scrupulously eyeing the invitation before looking back to him, “Well, I don’t see why you couldn’t. If you can find yourself something appropriate to wear you’re more than welcome to come.”

Hwanwoong happily twirls out of the music room at that, blind to the glint in his step-mother’s eyes.

He pricks his fingers more than once when he’s patching up his only presentable piece in his wardrobe but that doesn’t seem to stymie his enthusiasm. It’s a simple apricot-coloured dress with wide sleeves; it’s not that flattering and a little too long but he figures if he tucks in the waist a little it would be enough to go.

When he puts it on, the stitches show a little on the side where he’d tucked the loose fabric in, but aside from that it seems just fine. It’s the closest to good looking Hwanwoong has felt in a long, long time. He adds a little rouge to his cheeks and dabs just a hint onto his lips before pulling on his only pair of sandals that aren’t worn at the soles, and rushes to meet his step-family.

The first sign of trouble comes when he stands beside his step-sisters, dwarfed by their extravagant ball gowns and heels, lips curled in a cold sneer as they look him up and down.

“What are you wearing?” one of them asks, and Hwanwoong looks down at himself, gathering his skirt in his hands and twirling once,

“My dress! It’s not much but it’s all I have and I think I’ve mended it well enough!” he feels a surge of pride as he says this. Sure, it’s not of the same caliber as their bespoke gowns but he’s feels _beautiful_ and - 

The sound of fabric tearing reaches into body and pulls out his still beating heart with it, punches all air out of him as he looks down in horror at a perfect glass slipper stepping on the hem of his dress. The dress has come undone at the seams but more than that, the fabric itself has been ripped a clean line almost all the way up his thigh.

“Oops,” the other one says, tone not at all remorseful, “you shouldn’t have moved so much now look at what happened…” Her sister giggles and waves him away,

“No matter, not like it was pretty anyways.” 

They leave without him, telling him he shouldn’t be out wearing a ripped dress like that, and their departure from the manor leaves him feeling desolation in the pit of his stomach, standing in his tattered dress and smeared makeup, Hwanwoong has never felt more ashamed of who he is. Bitterness churns deep in his stomach at seeing them attend the ball when he knows he’s had every right to as well, kept hidden only because his step-family thought his dress an eyesore.

He weeps awful bitter tears as he slumps to the ground, anger welling up at just how horrible it feels to be left alone like this, thoughts straying to sunnier days where he might have been happier, wrapped in the arms of his real family and not left on ground where these wretched women think he belongs.

“The ground is dirty, you know.” a sweetened voice calls out to him, hand delicately carding through his hair and when Hwanwoong looks up he sees a pair of sharp eyes, bright and sparkling against the evening sky. He hurriedly wipes his eyes, a little embarrassed at having been caught in such a state.

“Who are you?” he can’t help but asks, hiccuping horribly through his words. The boy, no older than him surely, dressed in a long-sleeved gown that expose his neck and shoulders, cracks a blinding smile and shrugs one milky shoulder,

“Your own fairy!” he says so earnestly that Hwanwoong almost feels inclined to believe him on the spot. Instead, he laughs a little wetly and nods dumbly,

“Huh, okay.”

“I’m serious! Look, you want to go to the ball, don’t you? I can help you.” He helps Hwanwoong stand up, even going as far as dusting off the dress despite it being obviously beyond repair. The rip is bigger than Hwanwoong initially thought and the gravel he’d kneeling on doesn’t help either. He pinks a little in shame.

“With what dress? With what carriage?”

“Why, with my dress! And my carriage!”

At that, the boy steps back and out of thin air, produces a thin wand. With a wave of his hand, a carriage appears in front of Hwanwoong, complete with horses and a coachman as well. The coachman tips his hat to him with a subdued smile.

“...What…” is all Hwanwoong can say before the boy is in his space again, smoothing his hair and rubbing dirt off his cheeks,

“I told you, I’m your own fairy. My name is Dongju!” Dongju fusses around him a little more before stepping back, seemingly satisfied with cleaning up as well as he can. “Now, spin for me, I need to work my magic.”

Numbly, still in disbelief that a _fairy_ of all things is standing in front of him and actually making his wish come true, he shuffles on unsteady feet and slowly twirls for him. Dongju twirls the wand in his hand, a splatter of sparkles flying off and he points it at Hwanwoong. The magic is almost instant, seemingly painting over his tattered dress with something far more eyecatching.

The dress is a sublime work of art: champagne in colour with just a blush of pink, it flows down his body like a river in soft tulle and flowers embroidered into his bodice and over his shoulders. The sleeves are flowing and open, cut just at the crook of his elbow, resembling folded angel wings. It's perfect.

"I've never felt so beautiful in my life!" Hwanwoong confesses in earnest, grabbing Dongju's hands. Dongju's sharp eyes shine like gems at the praise,

"You've always been beautiful," he replies, voice soft and sweet, "you were just too busy to see it."

The carriage is an opulent thing. Ornately carved and pearl-white, it catches the light of the moon and twinkles brightly like a dream come true. The inside is plush and quaint, well cushioned and soft to the touch. Hwanwoong does not want for anything else. 

He hugs Dongju as hard as he can, arms shaking with the force of it all, still mindful not to wrinkle the fabric of his dress.

"Thank you." Hwanwoong whispers, holding onto him impossibly tighter before pulling away and letting himself be led into the carriage, "I cannot thank you enough. I won't ever forget tonight."

"It is my job as your fairy, after all." The door closes and Dongju twirls his skirt, in a flourish of magic dust and petals, he vanishes. The carriage speeds off into the night, northbound toward the palace.

Turns out being brave is easier said than done. Hwanwoong looks at the sprawling staircase leading toward the ballroom and finds that even though this is what he’d wished for, he’s not quite sure it’s what he wants. He hides instead, and sneaks through toward the back of the palace, where a small clearing holds a beautiful garden and a tall fountain.

He sits there, dipping a finger into the cool water and singing a little tune to himself. As a babe, his mother did not leave them a moment of cold silence, filling it with her soft voice and tunes of faraway adventures. Often she would sing him to sleep, cradled against her chest and stroking his hair until he’d felt calm.

"Who's there?" A voice shakes through the night, pulling Hwanwoong out of his nervous daze to look around him. Standing on the balcony above him is a broad man, dark hair and fitted in a dark tunic and cloak, shoulders finely decorated with twinkling gold threads. His clouded eyes stare straight ahead.

Just a nobody, Hwanwoong thinks a bit dejectedly. Someone who didn't have the courage to attend the ball .

"Just a little bird." Hwanwoong says instead, steels his nerves before he comes forward a half step, eyes never straying from the towering figure above him.

The man laughs, soft and rumbling, like the purr of a wildcat,  
"A bird, you say." the man steps away from the balcony and Hwanwoong thinks perhaps this is the end, turning back to the fountain and humming another tune to himself.

He’s caught by surprise then, when the man’s voice carries over the trickling sound of the fountain, pleasantly caressing his ears,  
"I've never heard a bird sing quite so beautifully before. Tell me, what sort of bird might you be?"

When Hwanwoong turns around, the man has descended from the balcony and with quick feet has joined him in the palace gardens. Hwanwoong smooths down the front of his dress, wringing his hands together as he chances another glance at him.

With the man's portrait hanging in the hall of the palace and painted on so many commissions around town, Hwanwoong would know that peerless face anywhere. it would be difficult not to know who he is: the crown prince, Youngjo.

“Ah, sorry.” Hwanwoong finds it in himself to feel a little ashamed now, having essentially trespassed into the royal family’s garden, shoes discarded and hooked on his pinky, sitting at the foot of their opulent fountain and singing to himself. In hindsight, perhaps heading into the ballroom would have been a better idea. “I didn’t really think I would be…”

“Caught?” Youngjo responds, tone light and jovial, his lips spread in a serene smile and though the word is implication enough, his tone remains kind.

"More or less." Hwanwoong sheepishly admits. 

"You have a beautiful voice, little nightingale." Youngjo says, "Will you sing for me?"

Hwanwoong hesitates for two seconds but the next words wash over him, tone light and warm,

"Little nightingale," Youngjo beckons, and Hwanwoong is helpless but to follow, "sing for me some more."

So he does. He sings a little dilly from his childhood his mom used to sing for him, one that he hears the traveling show croon late at night with their bards in tow, he sings a song just for Youngjo.

"What brings you out here, when the ball is inside?"

"Same as you, I suppose. Also, I'm not … so keen on dancing." Youngjo makes a vague gesture to his handsome face, small humourless smile tugging at his lips.

"Would you dance with me if you knew me?"

"... I think I might."

"Then, here." Hwanwoong grabs his hands and slowly guides the tips of his fingers to his face, "Get to know me."

Under the sky and stars, Hwanwoong closes his eyes and let's Youngjo map out the contours of his face, asking and answering in equal measure, voices gentle and light as the petal of a rose.

His thumb lingers on the apple of Hwanwoong's cheek,  
"Do you believe in love?" Youngjo asks, soft as a breath. Hwanwoong looks at him, moonlight casting shadows upon the planes of his face, strong and beautiful.

He thinks of his parents dancing in the summer sun, his father twirling his mother a few times and her dress spiraling out like a flower in bloom. He would press her close to his chest and sway them after, one hand cradling the back of her head and the other resting upon the delicate curve of her hip. He thinks how lovely it would be to dance with Youngjo like that.

"I think I do."

His request for a dance is non-verbal. Hwanwoong's hands find purchase in the softness of the Prince's tunic, and Youngjo tugs him upright, kind lovely smile never faltering,

"Okay nightingale, teach me how to dance."

There isn't much to teach for Hwanwoong had never been to a true dance class with his time stuck swaying between dreaming of happier days and arms deep in work he wasn't born into. Instead, they lean in, arms wrapped around each other, and Hwanwoong pillows his head against the broad shoulder, catching the fresh scent of Youngjo.

"Just like this is fine." Hwanwoong whispers and slowly, step by step, breath by breath, moves them side to side the way his father had done to his mother all those years ago. Youngjo hooks his chin atop his head, curling a hand around the back of his neck and the other rubbing grand circles on his back.

"Just like this is perfect."

Hwanwoong closes his eyes again, commits every feeling to memory to last him a lifetime. Surely they haven't been together long but when Hwanwoong feels focused enough to open his eyes again, he feels as though he's lived so many years past his age.

When he lifts his head again, Youngjo also opens his eyes and between the curves of his brow sits something akin to pure happiness he’s seldom seen since his parents passed. He rolls the feeling of something close to love  
"I feel I have known you all my life." Hwanwoong confesses.

"Perhaps you have. My heart has wished for you every night, I'm sure."

Their lips barely press against each other before the clock begins chiming loudly, striking twelve within no time and it feels as certain as a death sentence, and it's over far too soon, he thinks begrudgingly. He pulls away with great reluctance, fingers catching on the sleeve of Youngjo’s tunic, he thinks even this is worth remembering.

“I must go,” Hwanwoong says, tries not to let the hurt bleed into his voice, “thank you so much for this dance.”

He watches as Youngjo’s face falls a little, brows furrowed as he reaches out for Hwanwoong again,

“Wait, how will I find you?”

“You can’t. You mustn’t find me.” Hwanwoong implores, already hiking up his skirts and picking up his pace. Youngjo shuffles toward him, following the sound of his voice,

“What are you saying, nightingale? Where are you going?” he beseeches but Hwanwoong is already too many steps away, slipping through the cracks of the night.

“Goodbye, prince Youngjo!” almost as an afterthought, Hwanwoong lurches forward into Youngjo’s arms and knocks them back, “Thank you so much for tonight, I will never forget this for as long as I live.” he hurriedly presses a proper kiss to his lips before running away, blending into the shadows as Youngjo calls after him. He’s not sure he could handle the heartbreak if he looks back, so he squares his shoulders and keeps moving forward.

The carriage ride back is bumpy, already losing its shape as the magic wears off, Hwanwoong silently implores it to go just a little bit faster, just far enough out of sight of the palace that he doesn’t have to look at it when he’s back to his pallid old life.

His dress has shedded its magic almost immediately, the illusion shattering and leaving him back to the rags that his step-sisters had left him in their wake, torn beyond repair. He sits on the side of the road, carriage bleeding away in a flurry of magic dust, and touches his fingers to his lips. Where his bravery had earned him that kiss, his lips burn with the memory of it. Hwanwoong looks up at the sky, moon twinkling bright and beautiful,

“Thank you.” he whispers. Slipping back into his sandals, he begins the walk back home.

✧───｡ﾟ★: *.✦.* :★ﾟ ｡───✧

For most of his life, Youngjo never believed in love at first sight. Then a little bird tumbled into his arms and he threw caution to the wind and fell head first in one night. He doesn’t even need to think when his father calls him to his study room the next morning to ask about the ball.

“I’m in love.” He says. With a voice sweet as honey and face soft as the sun’s rays, under the moon they’d danced and kissed, pressed close and Youngjo had not wanted from the cherry tree, surely this could only be love. “I want to marry him.”

The only problem is, well, he was too busy falling in love to learn his little lover’s name.  
“How will you find him, then?” his father asks and Youngjo can feel the tiredness coming off of him in waves. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about the logistics of it, had been too preoccupied with remembering the feel of those plush lips against his. When his nightingale stole away into the night, he had left nothing behind, not even Youngjo’s breath.

“His voice. I would know his singing anywhere.”

And so they set out, his royal advisor riding horseback beside his carriage as they send a messenger out ahead of them, letting the whole kingdom know that every fair maiden and man who attended the ball the night before was to come forth.

It seems hopeless to find his lost love this way but with nothing else to go on, Youngjo and his men press on, further into the claws of society looking for a runaway bird with a golden voice. Twice he’s almost convinced of the person in front of him; they are the right size, sweet and soft, and their voices a melody in itself. All hope is dashed when he asks them to sing the song dedicated to him and is met with stagnant silence, letting go of their hands as he thanks them for their time and moves onto the next street. 

Each wrong person he comes across feels more desolate than the last and Youngjo can’t help but wring his hands, body wracked with nerves as the carriage carries them further away from his home but no closer to his lost love.

“Your majesty, this is the last manor in the kingdom.” his royal advisor says to him, rearing his horse to a stop as they slow in front of what Youngjo thinks is his last hope.

“All right.”

It’s a wretched feeling. Hearing two distinctly feminine voices greeting him by the doors and Youngjo can’t help the way his shoulders slump in defeat when he asks them to sing, timber voices grating at him despite how well they sound.

“Thank you,” Youngjo sighs, he’s sure that he must look a sad state but he doesn’t forget his manners nonetheless, “I’m afraid I’ve come in vain. Thank you for your hospitality, madame.” he regards the matriarch of the family, can feel tears pricking at his eyes as he does his best to put on a smile, no matter how empty and foreign it feels to do so.

“And you have no one else in the family, ma’am?” his royal advisor asks, just to be sure. He’s done it for all the families before this one, it’s only right to give them the same courtesy. The lady of the house hums an affirmative, crushing Youngjo impossibly further into the depths of despair. He longs to leave and bury himself in his blankets and never resurface until he’s nursed his heart back to normalcy.

Just then, in between the chatter of people around him, the breeze brings to him the tail end of a hum, sweet as honey and barely there, but more than enough to reignite what hope he thought he’d left to rot.

“Where’s that singing coming from?” He cuts their conversation short, voice betraying just how impatient he is to know what he’s listening to. The lady sputters indignantly,

“Just a servant boy, your highness. A nobody.”

“A nobody?” Youngjo follows the source of the singing, waving his hand in the direction of the lady when she tries to speak to him. His royal advisor walks ahead of him by half a pace, keen ears also looking for the honey voice.

He’s sure of it, really, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life that this voice belongs to the one he’s been looking for. The way that voice wraps around vowels so sweetly, lilts boldly at the end of each word, it could be no one else.

“Nightingale?” he calls out blindly, feeling a sturdy oak door in front of him and pushing it open before his advisor can make a move. “Little nightingale, is that you?”

“Prince!”

Hearing a voice has never brought such reprieve to him than in this moment; Youngjo feels like he’s been a man starved and finally had a drop of water, clean and cool against his palette. He runs to the little bird and finds himself colliding clumsily into that warm body, laughing freely and pressing kisses to whatever inch of skin he can reach. He vows to never let go again.

Their wedding ceremony is on a sunny day, rays of light bathing him in warmth as Hwanwoong holds his hand. Youngjo had learned his name only after he’d kissed him breathless that day and had half a mind to ask for something. He leans forward, a silent gesture to press their foreheads together and can’t help the silly smile that tears through him when Hwanwoong gently knocks their heads together and giggles.

“Sing me a song, little nightingale.”

“Happily.”

They kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twt [@mechanicharin](https://twitter.com/mechanicharin)  
> please let me know what you think


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